


Watching the Northern lights

by solrosan



Series: Look how you care for them [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft Feels, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It dawned on Sherlock that, even though he might have been the wrong person for John when Harry had died, he was, not just the right, but the only person for Mycroft.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching the Northern lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_blackpanther](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_blackpanther/gifts).



> In a comment on the original posting of _What would John do?_ [a_blackpanther](http://a_blackpanther.livejournal.com) said "what if mummy or not!Anthea died [and] Sherlock was forced to do this again for Mycroft?" and that was just such a wonderful (plot-)idea that I couldn’t let it go.
> 
> Originally written in December 2011.
> 
> * * *

It would, without a doubt, be a boring case. Honestly, the police hadn’t even tried yet. Just because it was some important politician (Sherlock hadn’t bothered remembering her name) who had been found dead in her office he was called in early so they would have it solved before the evening news. So far, no one had told him anything that would make this case to be even remotely interesting. John had somehow managed to talk him in to it anyway.

How dull.

They were let into the building with much less hassle than they had ever been let into a crime scene. Apparently someone was very keen to get this sorted fast. Sherlock wondered if he should be amused or annoyed by this. Seeing as he would probably spend the rest of the day annoyed by a boring case, he decided to feel amused by the rush. 

It was a good choice, because John made disturbing noises already, impressed by the sheer size of the building’s foyer. This was truly going be a long and trying day. 

Even though the building was huge (he had to give John that, but it was a big workplace, they needed a lot of space) it wasn’t hard to find the way to the crime scene. No matter how much they tried to keep this quite, it’s hard to have cops running around the place unnoticed.

John pressed the button to the lift – the dead woman’s office was on the fifth floor – and talked about something almost as non-interesting as the case would turn out to be. 

Because it would be a boring case. 

It just would.

It might be better than to sit at home and not do laundry though. Yes, hopefully it would be more interesting than not doing the laundry. He had to give the case at least that.

The lift arrived and with a small ‘ding’ the doors opened. Overly impatient to get this over with, Sherlock didn’t wait for the people coming down to exit before he was on his way in. 

Then everything came to a halt and he found himself backing away from Mycroft. Somehow, the breath had been knocked out of him at the sight of his brother and he couldn’t help that he stared, mouth slightly opened, in shock because… Mycroft had been crying.

It was a phenomenon Sherlock had never seen before, like the northern lights or a volcanic eruption. Not even when they were children had he seen Mycroft cry. To be accurate (and Sherlock tried to always be accurate) Mycroft wasn’t crying now either, but he had been and to Sherlock it was as obvious as if he still was sobbing. 

“Sherlock, what the…?” John said and put out his hand to stop the door form closing, not noticing Mycroft until now and frowning slightly. Sherlock would have appreciated the frown more if he wasn’t still caught in shock.

John couldn’t see it, could he? He didn’t notice? Didn’t look like it. Sherlock hoped he didn’t because that would, without a doubt, be how Mycroft wanted it to be. Why was Sherlock able to see it? Did Mycroft want him to see it? Probably not. Not even Mycroft could plan for a meeting like this. He was most likely just leaving. Mycroft looked at him and for a split second there was pure horror in his eyes when he realised Sherlock knew. That Sherlock saw.

It must be John’s fault that he was able to see this. There was no other explanation. The doctor’s receptivity to emotions must be rubbing off on him. How would he be able to un-see this? If Mycroft didn’t want him to see this, then he really shouldn’t.

Why did he even care?

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked his brother, knowing perfectly well that he sounded just as harsh as he always did. It was the only way to do it. Mycroft needed to get out of here. Now, preferably. Sherlock needed to forget what he’d seen, what he still saw. 

For both their sakes.

With his small, superior smile Mycroft tilted his head – the façade, almost impossible even for Sherlock to see through all of a sudden. There was something off though, Sherlock _could_ still see it, but even if someone would hold a gun to John’s head he wouldn’t be able to figure out what it was. It just was there. 

“So they called you,” Mycroft noted with a small nod as he stepped out of the lift. “Try not to take all day, Sherlock, and be quiet. People do still work in this building.”

Sherlock snorted away his insecurity, he was certain both of them needed to pretend everything was normal and he hoped he managed as well as Mycroft. It would take a lot for him to admit, but he had always admired (and been a bit jealous of) his brother ability to remain in control of his movements and his expressions.

“Dr Watson,” Mycroft gave John the same small nod as Sherlock had received.

“Mycroft,” John responded politely and somewhere in the back of his mind Sherlock registered that even if John did his best to make him spend more time with his brother, he’d rather stay away himself. 

Interesting.

Mycroft gave Sherlock one last look and there was something there, something in his eyes, that made Sherlock’s stomach twist itself into a knot (metaphorical speaking, of course, but for the first time Sherlock could understand the saying). He stared at his brother’s back as he exited the building. What was that about? Was he trying to tell him something? What… What… It’s… He…

“Coming?” 

John broke through his state of paralysation and without a word he walked into the lift. Sherlock watched John through the corner of his eye while they slowly moved passed floor after floor. There was no way John had noticed the state Mycroft was in, if he had, there would without a doubt be questions. 

Sherlock had questions. So many questions and no answers at all.

Disturbing.

Frustrating.

Or no, it was not frustration. It was the same unsettling feeling as during the American tourist case. Why was that? This case was nothing like that case. 

Oh.

John.

He looked at his friend, who spent this short moment of isolation to prepare himself for seeing yet another dead body. Usually this was done on the ride over and Sherlock had observed John going through this routine before every case involving death. Not the first one they’d gone to, he had rather sprung that one on him, but the rest of them.

John had been devastated during the tourist case. 

Because Harriet had died. 

The thought process was so slow right now, probably the aftermath of the shock. Sherlock knew he was close to the answer but he just couldn’t see it. Something was in the way, or missing, or non-existing. Harriet had died, causing John to be devastated during the tourist case which had made Sherlock feel the same way as he did now when he had noticed that Mycroft had been crying because…

Oh.

“What’s the name of the dead woman?” Sherlock asked as the lift slowed down and came to a halt. Lifts always made him a bit queasy, but that was not the reason his heart rate increased. 

“Norah Manson,” John said, or reminded, judging be the sound of his voice as he stepped out of the lift.

It had to be… It just couldn’t be a coincidence. Sherlock felt a sting of panic before a cold spread through his body and, instead of following John, he pressed the button to close the doors.

“Tell them it’s natural causes or suicide,” he said as the doors closed again and he wasn’t sure John heard him add: “I’m sure they can figure out which.”

As the lift went down he realised that this was very uncharacteristic behaviour for him. Not the impulsiveness of it all, no that one was rather spot on, but to leave a crime scene like that? Dull as it might be… What was this, the day the Holmes brothers acted like unpredictable loonies? Where was his reason? He wanted it back!

Desperate to find it again he almost went back into the lift as soon as he stepped out of it, but then he remembered the look Mycroft had given him and decided that John could do very well without him. Unsurprisingly, John didn’t come to the same conclusion – how could he? – and managed to call him twice before Sherlock even left the building.

He would deal with John later.

* * *

Sherlock stood outside his brother’s flat for the first time. He told himself it was the first time because Mycroft had only been living here for 10 months – and it had been a busy 10 months – but he was well aware he hadn’t visited the previous two addresses Mycroft had been living at either. 

It surprised him that the name on the door said ‘Holmes’. If someone would have reason to hide his real name it would be his brother. Then, his brother was very egocentric and hiding behind a pseudonym would incline some sort of humbleness. Who would believe ‘Mycroft’ was his real name, anyway?

That was not the problem at hand. 

No, the most crucial problem had to be that the door was locked (he hadn’t tried it, but it had to be). Not that a locked door was a problem per se – it seemed like an easy enough pick – the problem was that it was _Mycroft’s_ locked door. Last time he had picked Mycroft’s door he had been thirteen and the result had been very unpleasant. Whatever would happen when he picked this lock, he was pretty sure it would be something equally unpleasant.

His phone buzzed. 

John. 

Again.

He should answer. John was most likely worried by now. By now? Sherlock frowned, John had probably been worried even before the irritation of being left behind had subsided. No wonder the man was a bit slow, must be hard to get any thinking done when so much time was spent worrying. 

With a shrug he let the phone go back in the pocket without even checking the text. John was a secondary problem, Mycroft was the primary problem. 

Or rather, the door was. 

The door was the primary problem. Mycroft the secondary. John the tertiary problem – if even that.

He could just… ring the doorbell, but according to his assessment (unfortunately just based on a handful data points accumulated over the years, but still rather reliable), the chance of anyone opening the door from the inside was very close to zero. Somehow it even felt like a risk more than a chance.

This was ridiculous!

It was a door.

A door!

Mycroft’s door…

What was he even doing? Mycroft didn’t want him here.

Sherlock stared at the door, arms crossed over his chest, and decided that if he had spent all these years ignoring what his older brother wanted he shouldn’t start honouring his wishes now.

After that it took him less than three minute to open the door. The flat was completely dark and the low beeping told Sherlock that, of course, there was an alarm to turn off. He closed the door, turned the lights on and looked at the panel of the alarm. It looked simple enough. No fingerprinting or more complicated things that often popped up in those spy movies John liked. 

Wonder how much time he had left?

Probably some.

For a moment he got lost in this problem, forgetting why he even needed to deactivate the alarm. He knew the brand, six digits, end with hash. Just five digits (plus the hash key of course) seemed to be used frequently: 1 4 6 7 0. Which one was used twice? Impossible to tell. Then what was the code?

14th October -76 – his, Sherlock’s, birthday.

Oh Mycroft, you sentimental idiot.

The alarm turned off without protest and Sherlock didn’t know if he was disturbed, touched or annoyed by his brother’s alarm code. Something that _did_ bother him though was that no one had come to see who was entering the flat. 

What if Mycroft wasn’t here? 

Well, he should take the opportunity to at least look around. Make sure there was food in the kitchen, John hadn’t remembered to do the shopping after Harry had died. The thought of Mycroft doing grocery shopping – no matter what state he was in – felt foreign. There was probably someone who did it for him, Sherlock wouldn’t have to worry about that.

Did Mycroft cook?

Sherlock looked around in the lit hallway. Clinical, posh, nothing personal – except the alarm code – just like Mycroft. 

Predictable. 

Disappointing. 

He moved further into the flat, noticing the complete lack of personal items as he kept turning on the lights. Had he not known this was Mycroft’s home, he would have taken it for a display. The insight made him oddly uncomfortable.

When turning on the light in the sitting-room, his breath halted for a moment. There, blinking at the sudden, but surely expected, light, was Mycroft, sitting on the far end of a heavy sofa with an inappropriately filled snifter in his hand. The signs of grief were much clearer here, away from the public, where he probably thought of himself as safe from watching eyes. 

Oh, Mycroft, you, if anyone, should know that there was always someone watching. 

Always.

Sherlock watched as his brother’s back became straighter, how an unfeeling mask slowly slid over his face and how the tightness around the mouth changed. There was no way to save face now, Sherlock had seen everything already, he _knew_ everything already (or at least he knew enough) and it was unsettling that Mycroft instinctively tried to hide it. Mycroft should know it was too late, he should know that little brother knew.

That little brother saw.

Sherlock remembered his confusion when John had tried to muffle the sound of his tears the night Harriet had died. This was the same, yet completely different. Mycroft wasn’t John, not even close, and they shouldn’t, in any way, act the same. Still they both seemed to have the need to hide grief from him.

Why?

They held each other’s eyes and Sherlock knew Mycroft tried to figure out why he was here. It took some effort, but Sherlock did his best to not hide his motives. Not because Mycroft wouldn’t figure it out anyway, but because he really wanted his brother to know that he was there for his sake. 

Mycroft’s mask finally slid off again and he turned to stare into space like Sherlock suspected he had done before the lights were turned on. Sherlock took it as an invitation to stay and to show that he accepted, and that Mycroft’s terrible state didn’t bother him (even though it did), he removed his scarf and his coat and carefully placed it over the arm of the nearest chair.

He watched Mycroft’s profile intensely; the red eyes, the bags under them, the pale skin, the greyish hair, the uncharacteristically bad posture. Not that anything in his brother’s appearance was very characteristic at the moment. Sherlock’s eyes fell to the ring on Mycroft’s right hand and he had to look away. It was surprisingly uncomfortable to see Mycroft like this.

Standing there, staring, wouldn’t do. There was nothing he deduce that he didn’t already know (at least nothing he _wanted_ to know) and he was fairly sure Mycroft would appreciate if he didn’t stare. 

Just like John.

He had to stop doing that! John and Mycroft were not the same. In any way. Just like he and Harry weren’t the same. The similarities were sometimes striking though and it scared him. Would Harry (if she was still alive, of course) come to comfort John if the person he considered his life partner died? Sherlock couldn’t answer that, he had never met the woman. It didn’t matter; she wouldn’t have to, because John had him. And Mycroft certainly didn’t have Harry, ergo: he and Harry were not the same, he was better!

Yes, he did see the painful mistakes in that reasoning, but he told himself that this was not the time. No, he should make tea. John had always appreciated that. Wonder if he still would appreciate being served tea? He had to try that when he got home.

Oh, right, he wasn’t home. He was with Mycroft and Mycroft needed tea. 

Perhaps. 

Maybe? 

To hell with it! He was going to make tea because he couldn’t just stand there, staring. No one could accuse him of being insensitive if he made tea.

Or?

Before he could start another internal debate or train of thoughts, Sherlock turned around and found his way to the kitchen. It was a fairly sized kitchen, spotless, but still very obviously used. Mycroft, or someone, cooked here frequently – Sherlock would say three to five times a week, the almost compulsive cleaning made it hard to be more precise.

It hit him: Mycroft lived here. He actually lived here. He didn’t just exist as a supporting character in Sherlock’s life, he… he actually had his own life. It was a quite disturbing insight, or rather, the fact that it was an insight was disturbing. 

The temptation to going through all the kitchen cupboards and drawers was strong – imagine what he could learn – but Sherlock fought it off. It felt strange to protect the privacy of a man that had no understanding of the word when it came to others, but Sherlock reminded himself that the only reason he was there was because Mycroft wasn’t in his right state of mind and not capable of throwing him out. 

So, just tea then.

Step 1: kettle – easy enough, seeing as it was placed conveniently on the worktop. 

Step 2: put on water – wasn’t really identifying a protein coding gene, either.

Step 3: mug… or was it tea? 

After a moment of thought, Sherlock realised that it didn’t matter and on his first guess (though he would pretend that he had deduced it) he found where Mycroft kept his mugs. There was one mug, a seemingly ordinary, blue one, with a small nick in the handle and Sherlock decided right away to use that one. The only reason for Mycroft to keep something broken must be because he liked it.

The tea was easy to find as well and Sherlock was pleased to see that none of the strangely smelling brands were to be found. John could really learn how to shop for tea from Mycroft! It was almost a delight to look through them in search of one he thought fitting.

In the end, he picked one at random after deeming them all fit.

When he poured the water over the teabag, and tried to remember if Mycroft had his tea with milk and/or sugar, his phone buzzed again. That would make it 14 missed texts and 5 missed calls. He really should text John and say that everything was all right before he sent the dogs after him, or worse, Lestrade. John was probably really upset by now and that hadn’t been his intention at all. 

Mycroft had milk but no sugar in his tea. 

Just like mummy.

Their dad had nothing in his tea.

Sherlock had everything, but could go without sugar if he needed to.

There. Done. The tea was ready. 

Sherlock put one hand around the mug and felt the warmth go through the porcelain (he was fairly sure it was porcelain) and into his skin, warming up the blood that passed through the vessels, carrying the increased temperature up, along his arms… Well, eventually he would feel that, it took some time. As for now, he just felt his cold fingers becoming warmer. 

Perhaps his poor circulation would stop the transport of heat somewhere along the wrist.

Why did he have such a hard time focusing at the matter at hand? He didn’t understand, nor did he understand why he wanted John there. John wouldn’t be of any help, he would just be in the way and make everyone uncomfortable. 

Mycroft didn’t need John.

…but he did.

This day was just full of strange and annoying insights, wasn’t it?

Sherlock looked at the phone he had placed on the worktop. The screen still said 14 texts and 5 calls. If he picked it up and called John it would be to stop his friend form worrying, not because standing here with Mycroft’s tea formed a knot of insecurity in his stomach again.

His fingers knew the number by muscle memory – he had spent two days on that, figuring it would be good to be able to reach John even if his brain was foggy – and, unknowingly, he straightened his back to brace himself for the scolding he knew he was going to get.

“Where the hell are you?” John practically yelled at him and Sherlock had to hold the phone away from his ear.

“Natural causes or suicide?” He asked when he put the phone back to his head, wildly ignoring John’s question since there was no way he would answer it.

“Where. Are. You?” 

Sherlock felt himself shrink at the tone John used.

“I… can’t tell you,” he said in a much lower voice than before. “Or I can, I’m just not going to.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to tell you that either.” Sherlock was perfectly sure that John wouldn’t be satisfied with that answer either, but he wasn’t going to tell him. He wondered what Mycroft had done to deserve this protection, but whatever the reason, he was very sure Mycroft _did_ , indeed, deserve it.

“And why not?”

Even though ‘because’ was a tempting answer, Sherlock refrained from using it. Instead he said nothing and looked down at the tea. He should probably bring it out to Mycroft before it got cold. Hanging up on John wasn’t at all tempting though, even if John just scolded him.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice after what must have been a long silence. John’s voice had changed, it had shifted from angry and irritated to worried and concerned – Sherlock knew it was the same thing though, the anger and irritation were actually worry and concern. John was strange and amazing at the same time. 

He didn’t deserve John. 

Ouch… That was probably the worst insight today.

Sherlock sighed. “Was it natural causes or suicide?”

“Without you there, they wouldn’t let me in and they weren’t all that keen to listen to your theory.” John gave up – or gave in? – without losing the concerned voice. “They hardly said anything on the news. Just that she was found dead.”

“At least they have ruled out homicide all by themselves, then,” Sherlock muttered. “I told you it was a boring case.” 

“That’s not why you left without even setting a foot on the floor.”

No, it wasn’t. It was because the closest thing Mycroft had ever had to a wife had died. No, wait, that wasn’t it. It was because Mycroft had been crying, had he just seen the woman it would have taken him at least a couple of hours to make the connection.

“Did you know her?”

“No, I’ve met her once. Somehow Mycroft found it appropriate to bring a date to our grandmother’s funeral,” Sherlock said. He wondered if he should make himself some tea as well, the meditative influence it brought was soothing. Like John’s voice, when it wasn’t yelling anymore.

“Oh.” – Sherlock held his breath; he didn’t like the sound of that ‘oh’ – “Are you with Mycroft now?”

Sherlock took a moment to curse his own stupidity, he shouldn’t have mentioned Mycroft at all. John might be a bit slow when it came to facts and seeing the obvious, but when it came to irrational emotions and the reactions they could bring he was a wizard. 

If wizards had existed, of course.

“I’m probably not coming home until tomorrow,” Sherlock mumbled. “Can you text me any updates?”

“Sure. And stay as long as you need.”

“John?”

“You’ll do fine.” There was a reassuring sound in John’s voice even if Sherlock wasn’t sure the answer fitted what he was asking. “Just be there, listen to him. Make tea, you’re good at that.” 

Sherlock looked down at the blue mug and something in his chest came at ease when he got the confirmation from John that he was on the right track. Even if he didn’t trust John to do the right thing here, he at least trusted him more than he trusted himself.

“I should…” Sherlock drifted off, looking towards the sitting-room where he was sure Mycroft still sat with the snifter. He should exchange it for the tea. 

“Yeah, I’ll text you if I hear something. Call me if you need anything.”

Oh John, how could you live with yourself and all this caring? At the moment, it was a highly appreciated character flaw though.

“Thank you, I will.” Sherlock hung up before John could say anything else and tempt him to stay on the phone a bit longer. 

Mycroft didn’t show any sign of noticing that his brother came back to the sitting-room, but when Sherlock stopped right in front of him with a mug of tea he looked up. Sherlock tried his hardest to not look bored or annoyed – his default settings when dealing with Mycroft – which resulted in a rather solemn look and he held out the mug of tea without a word. 

Mycroft looked at the offering with suspicion – his default setting when dealing with Sherlock –before accepting it and Sherlock removed the snifter from him at the same time. They both smelled the drink they were holding and Sherlock got a sudden memory of their dad. Odd, though they did say that smell was the strongest memory sense. The memory, which for some reason made him think of blueberries, vanished as soon as it had come when Mycroft met his eyes. Sherlock looked back without blinking, trying to say something he didn’t really understand, as an answer to a question he wasn’t sure was asked. 

It dawned on Sherlock that, even though he might have been the wrong person for John when Harry had died, he was, not just the right, but the _only_ person for Mycroft. The realisation almost brought him to his knees. 

Did anyone but he – and now John – know about this? How many of Mycroft’s little helpers knew him intimately enough to know who Norah Manson really was? If Sherlock had been prone to guess, he’d say that no one knew and if that was the case, then Mycroft probably would like it to stay that way. He really wished he’d exaggerated Mycroft rolls in the government now. Otherwise the whole nation’s future could very well depend on how he did here. Was there anyone he should inform? He didn’t even know if there was anyone he should call. Snooping around in the flat would most likely not be of any help, judging by the complete lack of personal things. Mycroft knew how to hide his tracks. And everything else. This was getting ahead of himself though, they could work on covering this up when Mycroft did something else than just stare down a tea mug. 

Sherlock took a moment to close his eyes in the hopes of becoming calmer. It… worked well enough and, a bit clumsily, he placed the snifter on the coffee table. 

Had Mycroft had anything to eat today? Well, probably breakfast and lunch, but that must have been hours ago and dinner didn’t seem like something that was on Mycroft mind right now. The first couple of days after Harriet’s death Sherlock had almost had to force feed John because he had never seemed to get hungry. Maybe he wouldn’t need to do that to Mycroft yet, at most he was about to miss dinner, but the thought of fleeing to the kitchen was very tempting. 

No, he couldn’t leave now when he just had come back.

Sherlock looked around the room, searching for something to distract himself with; something to use as a barrier between them. He needed to distance himself from Mycroft and he was fairly sure Mycroft needed the same thing. The situation was close to unbearable, but he would be damned if he gave up and left. There was no way he could leave Mycroft alone.

He was Mycroft’s only person!

The bookshelves that covered one of the walls became the salvation. Sherlock let his fingers slide over the leather-bound volumes in search for something that would hold his interest for long enough. It was years since he had read fiction, but Mycroft seemed to have kept it up. At least he had managed to get quite a collection. 

He paused when he saw a worn copy of _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_. He remembered this book, this _exact book_. Mycroft had loved it when they’d been young and Sherlock had never been allowed to borrow it. It was a bit tempting to take it now, Mycroft surely wouldn’t mind anymore, but even though he was fluent in French, the mere thought of reading something that wasn’t in English was exhausting. Instead he settled on _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ , as he recalled he had enjoyed it as a teenager.

Armed with the book, Sherlock sat down next to Mycroft on the sofa. Just because they needed distance didn’t mean it had to be physical. 

Two chapters in, there was a sudden sound and both brothers jumped before they – or at least Sherlock – realised that it was just Sherlock’s phone that he’d forgotten in the kitchen. With his heart still rising in his chest from the fright, Sherlock gave Mycroft an apologetic look before he went to see who had texted him. 

It was John, not that he had thought otherwise, but he hadn’t dared to hope. He took a deep breath before opening the text.

_Official statement_  
_says it was a stroke._  
_Haven’t been able_  
_to figure out more_  
_precise._

It was a very strange relief to get information. There was nothing he could do without correct information. Sure, official statements were where speechwriters went to practice their lying skills, but if there were no rumours flying around then it was most likely true. 

Should he tell Mycroft? He had to admit that it had been his first instinct; he needed something to comfort Mycroft with. At the same time he knew that his brother was even more obsessed with proper facts than he was, so maybe it was too early to tell him. Perhaps he should wait until he had better information. 

More facts.

Stroke was a broad term and could be caused by many things. Saying that Norah Manson died of a stroke might just annoy Mycroft because it didn’t really provide any new information or solutions. Would John be able to figure out why she’d suffered a stroke? Or maybe where in the brain it had occurred? 

Probably not.

He should go back to the sitting-room. There was probably no place in the world where Sherlock would like to be less, but the thought of Mycroft alone, staring blindly into space (or down the mug) scared him more. It just wasn’t like Mycroft to shut down due to emotional overload.

Not that he had that much knowledge about Mycroft’s emotions, but Sherlock had always thought of his brother as capable and competent (and annoying and obnoxious and…). Right now he was none of those things. Right now Sherlock wasn’t even sure the man out there was his brother. A ridiculous thought, of course it was Mycroft, he just couldn’t function as himself right now. It was surprising, but Sherlock supposed it was understandable. 

On his way back Sherlock retrieve the cigarette pack that he had picked up on the way over – in some situations, nicotine patches just weren’t enough – from his coat. When was the last time he had smoked? Must have been for that case in Croydon, John had been on him like a hawk afterwards to make sure he didn’t continue the habit. Would Mycroft mind? Probably not, the first couple of hundred cigarettes Sherlock had smoked had been either nicked from – or freely given by – Mycroft. Sherlock looked at his brother and realised he didn’t know if Mycroft still smoked. 

Probably not.

Probably not what he should focus on either.

Sherlock looked at the package in his hand, then over at Mycroft who hadn’t moved since he had left and realised that he had to do something. Anything really. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have all information – why hadn’t he found out all the facts himself before coming here? He just needed a reaction from Mycroft, whatever that reaction was.

So he should show him John’s text. 

Hesitantly he walked back to the sofa and sat down on the coffee-table in front of his brother. That by itself actually earned him a look that clearly stated that he was not supposed to sit on the coffee-table.

Sorry Mycroft, he wasn’t going to move.

Mycroft looked between the cigarette package Sherlock held in the same hand as the phone and with the smallest motion with his head he pointed in the direction of the balcony door. It took Sherlock an embarrassingly long time to understand that Mycroft told him to kindly smoke outside if he had to. 

Sherlock shook his head and put the cigarettes down on the table next to him before opening the text and turning the phone so Mycroft could read it for himself. Mycroft squinted and leaned away from the phone to be able to read it. A great relief seemed to wash over Mycroft before the mug slid out of his hands. Sherlock reached for it, but was far too late. The only thing he managed was to hit the mug during its fall, spreading the cold, milky tea over half the room. Stunned and confused, Sherlock bent down to pick up both the mug and the phone that he had dropped in his attempt to save the mug. 

He should go and fetch something to wipe all this up before the tea set in the rug. Horrible rug, for sure, but it probably cost more than he paid Mrs Hudson in rent.

It was on his way up that he heard it, probably the most terrifying sound he had heard in his life and he froze before he dared to look at Mycroft who had buried his face in his hands, crying. What should he do now? Should he acknowledge that this happened or should he pretend that he didn’t see it? What would Mycroft want? 

He remembered the horrible night in the kitchen when John had been crying into his shirt and he wondered if he and Mycroft would be able to do that. If it was something they did. It felt like it was impossible to make anything worse right now though. There were no more ways he could mess this up. There couldn’t be. He had broken Mycroft and made him cry. It scared Sherlock more than anything he could remember. 

Carefully he placed the empty mug and the phone on the table and sat down on the sofa again, much closer this time, and after hesitating for another second he placed one hand on his brother’s shoulder. Almost immediately he got confirmation that this was the right thing when Mycroft leaned against the hand and took an almost desperate grip around Sherlock’s wrist.

It hurt a bit.

A lot, really.

Even more hesitantly Sherlock reached out his other hand and pulled his brother to him, in the closest they had come to a hug since they had been children and forced by their parents. It was a physically uncomfortable position, but it was nothing compared to what it was psychologically. Sherlock didn’t understand what had happened, but maybe he just had to admit to not understand grief.

The relief in Mycroft’s face when he had read the text was equally confusing. Sherlock knew that Mycroft had already known it wasn’t murder because otherwise he wouldn’t have left the scene. That was how Sherlock had been able to deduce it himself. There was just no way Mycroft would leave the murder of Norah Manson, had he suspected there had been one, to the police.

Perhaps he would have been the one calling Sherlock even? Sherlock looked at his crying brother, wondering if he would have trusted him with this case, had there been one. He knew Mycroft thought he was wasting his abilities – ‘their abilities’ as he used to refer to their mutual talents – by running around solving murders and returning missing belongings, but he also knew that Mycroft trusted him with things he trusted no one else. 

It went both ways.

Did Mycroft blame himself for Norah Manson’s death the same way John blamed himself for Harriet’s? How could he? No one could predict a stroke. Well, maybe someone, in some cases, but surely not Mycroft. 

Oh!

That must be it!

Mycroft had been relieved because it was natural causes, so there was no way he could have predicted it. Surely if it had been suicide, he would have picked up on the signs. Right? 

Oh.

He must have been afraid that he had missed something. What a terrible thing to have missed. Sherlock didn’t even want to imagine the panic it must have caused. Sherlock sighed when he came to the conclusion that he had done the right thing by show Mycroft the text.

Before Mycroft’s tears had subsided completely, he withdrew from his brother, suppressing the sobs with willpower alone. Sherlock gave him the courtesy of looking in the different direction for a while, but when he looked back, Mycroft was still fighting off tears.

That just wouldn’t do. Not even for Mycroft.

Sherlock made his brother look back at him by touching his shoulder again, ever so lightly, and shook his head slowly to tell him that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care that he cried. He would give him this free card, this one time when he didn’t have to be strong and that Sherlock never would use against him. Right now didn’t really exist. It was truce. 

It was Christmas 1914.

Wonder who of them was the Germans? 

Probably Sherlock.

Why had he kept this information? Mycroft gave in to the tears again and that was all that mattered for now, Sherlock realised. He could spend tomorrow deleting unnecessary history knowledge. 

Not as hesitant and reluctant this time, Sherlock reached out and put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, letting their head rest against each other until he was completely sure Mycroft’s body couldn’t produce more tears. From an inner pocket of his suit jacket, Sherlock took out a handkerchief that he handed to Mycroft. Yes, he was a man that always carried a handkerchief in his pocket. Their dad had said that a gentleman never knew when he might be in need of one and even though Sherlock hardly saw himself as a gentleman, he still carried one. Habit probably. Not really worth deleting since he had nothing better to have in that pocket and his dad had been right, one never knows when one need one. Gentleman or not.

Mycroft didn’t use it, just twined it between his fingers, which was unsettling. Surely Mycroft would know that he looked like a mess and needed to clean himself up a bit. Mycroft always cared about appearances! 

Always. 

It drove Sherlock insane. 

The minutes passed while Sherlock, with a rising panic, hoped for Mycroft to give him a sign to what he was supposed to do now. He couldn’t figure it out. There was nothing telling him what to do next. 

More tea?

Dinner? 

Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked over to his coat to look through the pockets. He knew exactly in which pocket he had it, but the looking prolonged the time until he would have to do something. Far too soon he was out of pockets and found himself staring at two pills. 

Diazepam.

Active ingredient, 7-chloro-1,3-dihydro-1-methyl-5-phenyl-1,4-benzodiazepin-2(3 _H_ )-one. 

Chemical formula C16H13ClN2O, molecular mass 284.7 g/mol.

For some reason, that knowledge seemed unimportant and useless now.

He had stolen them from Molly on the same detour as he had bought the cigarettes, to smuggle into his brother’s drink if all this became too much. It was hard to mess things up if the person was sleeping. Sherlock couldn’t say that it hadn’t become too much, but for some reason it didn’t feel right to trick Mycroft into taking it. 

Maybe he would take it voluntarily? See it as a temporary escape?

Hm. 

Temporary escape.

Wasn’t that what he had used heroin for?

This wasn’t at all like heroin though.

Heroin. 

(5α,6α)-7,8-didehydro-4,5-epoxy-17-methylmorphinan-3,6-diol diacetate.

Chemical formula C21H23NO5 and a molecular mass of 369.4 g/mol. 

No, it was not the same, but maybe he wasn’t the best judge when it came to addictive substances? Was Mycroft able to make the decision by himself? He would give him the chance at least, because if Mycroft would find out that he had drugged him…

Sherlock didn’t like the thought of that.

At all.  
He got a glass of water from the kitchen and sat down on the table in front of Mycroft again, holding out the tablets in an opened hand, as if he was feeding a bird. Mycroft looked even more suspicious at this offering as he had the tea. Sherlock couldn’t blame him. It actually felt healthy.

“Diazepam.”

The word sounded very intruding and Sherlock realised that it was the first one spoken between them since he had stepped inside the door. It was odd, it felt like they had said so much more to each other. 

Mycroft took the pills almost as soon as Sherlock had told him what it was and his hands trembled when Sherlock took the glass from him after he had swallowed them down. Then he handed Sherlock the handkerchief back and lay down on the sofa. Sherlock really wanted to suggest that he’d go to his bedroom, but instead of doing so he went there himself and took Mycroft’s duvet and pillow back with him to the sitting-room.

If Mycroft didn’t want to move from the sofa, then maybe Sherlock shouldn’t force him. No harm would come from Mycroft sleeping on the sofa tonight, Sherlock thought as he tucked his brother in. Their eyes met for a moment and Sherlock almost managed to smile. Just almost.

There really wasn’t anything to smile about.

Mycroft would probably not appreciate a smile anyway.

They had never been the smiling kind.

Sherlock looked at the cigarettes that temptingly lay on the table and once again he thought about the Christmas in 1914. That information really had to go. Wonder if John had had experiences like that? Perhaps he should ask before he deleted it. John never talked about the war though, he wouldn’t appreciate that he asked.

He wondered if he would be able to delete the events of tonight.

That wasn’t really the question though, was it? Sherlock looked down at his brother whose breathing pattern indicated that he was on his way to falling asleep and realised that the question was if he wanted to delete tonight or not. Not completely sure how to handle that, Sherlock picked up the phone and the cigarettes and went out on the balcony after turning off the light, leaving the door just a little ajar. 

The first puff of the first cigarette – he always carried a small matchbox in the same pocket as the handkerchief – was the best thing he had experienced in a very long time. A shiver of pleasure went through him and he realised that if he didn’t tell John about this it would end up being a problem. Not that smoking was a problem when you put it into perspective. Perhaps his ‘addict personality’ as they called it, was, but not the smoking. Not really. Not compared to his heroin, not compared to Molly’s sleeping pills, not compared to Harry’s drinking.

He lit the second cigarette almost without noticing it and was dialling John’s number before he realised it. 

“Hi, I was just thinking about you,” John said when he answered the phone. Sherlock smiled wearily. John hadn’t stopped thinking and worrying during this whole time. The strength in that man. “How is he?”

“Sleeping.”

“That’s good,” John said. Sherlock imagined how he nodded along with his words. “How are you?”

Sherlock looked down at his lit cigarette, wondering what the best answer to that question was. He wasn’t grieving, he wasn’t in any physical pain, he wasn’t in any real emotional pain either. He did feel a bit empty though. And useless. He hated that feeling. 

Apparently he thought about it for too long because before he had settled on something to say John spoke again.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock wondered if that really was the truth. “I’m just tired.”

“I can understand that.”

Really?

How?

Sherlock didn’t understand it himself.

“Where are you now?” John asked.

“On the balcony.” Sherlock kept looking at the cigarette, wanting to confess to what he was doing, but he let it be. No reason to tell John yet. It wasn’t a problem compared to so many other problems.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Sherlock sighed and looked out over London, wishing himself miles and miles away. “Just… tell me what to do.”

“You know what to do.”

“I really don’t.”

“You do, trust me. I have first-hand experience, remember?”

Sherlock wanted to protest and say that there was nothing similar between him and Mycroft, but instead he put out the cigarette and threw it of the balcony, watching it fall to the ground.

“Try to get some sleep, all right?” John told him when he didn’t respond.

“I will.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“It’ll be all right.”

Sherlock hung up, not sure what to say. It felt comforting that John thought he could manage, but the data John had based his opinion on was not really valid here. He had gone through all the things he had learned from that experience and somehow that didn’t seem to be enough. Because Mycroft wasn’t John. 

Maybe he could apply the same method though?

So, what would Mycroft do?

It was a scary thing to imagine and he lit his third cigarette. Nicotine patches to hell, nothing was like cigarettes and he needed his brain for this.

* * *

When Mycroft woke around noon the next day Sherlock had already been up for hours. He sat in an armchair close to the sofa and read _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_ – he hadn’t been able to resist.

He had broken into Mycroft’s laptop earlier to read the news. Even though it had been a bit trickier than breaking into John’s laptop, it had only taken him 23 minutes (he had clocked himself). Surely there was nothing work related on the computer, but he had still expected something more.

In addition to that had he managed to find a way to get his hands on the preliminary autopsy report on Norah Manson and as soon as he left here he would pick it up and send it over here. He knew what it said, ‘subarachnoid haemorrhage cause by an intracranial berry aneurysm’, and had spent a good part of the morning researching it. 

There had been no way Mycroft could have known.

Hopefully that would help.

At least a bit.

When Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was awake he met his eyes and nodded, he was well aware that it was obvious he had spent the night in the chair without sleep and wasn’t going to deny it. Mycroft didn’t seem to question it either but nodded in the same way as he sat up, allowing the duvet to fall off him.

“I’ve started to make arrangements so you don’t have to think about that,” Sherlock told him. “When you feel ready we can either discuss them, or you can just throw them away.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft started, but Sherlock shook his head. Whatever he had been planning to say, Sherlock didn’t want to hear it. 

“Before tonight I’ll have the autopsy report, you can read it or throw it away as well. The newsfeed is normal and I’ve been in contact with your assistant, telling her that you’re not coming into work today.”

“Sherlock.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock voice left no room for discussion and it freaked him out a bit just how much he sounded like Mycroft right now. “I’ve made breakfast, it’s in the kitchen, and sandwiches to last until I come back with the report and then I can make something else if you feel like it. I am going to bring you more Diazepam and—“ he got interrupted by a look Mycroft gave him and almost snorted in response. “Don’t be absurd, I’d never misuse John’s prescription rights. I’m merely stealing them from someone who should have stopped using them a long time ago.”

“I…”

“You should probably change your alarm code, the buttons are worn,” Sherlock cut him off, not sure he would be able to actually hold a conversation with him. Everything was just so much easier when it was just a one-way communication, but he had almost run out of things to say. “Do you want some tea?”

Mycroft stared at him for a while and Sherlock was unable to figure out what he wanted or what he was trying to say. Hopefully it wasn’t something important, hopefully it was just grief and confusion. Mycroft looked truly terrible, but he nodded, making Sherlock almost jump out of the chair at the permission to leave the room.

Making tea didn’t take long enough though and he was back within minutes with a mug in each hand.

“I couldn’t get the tea out,” he said, looking down at the stains from yesterday as he handed Mycroft one of the mugs and sat down on the table. “I can take care of that too.”

Mycroft nodded and looked down the mug. Sherlock reached out and put one hand on top of his brother’s. 

Neither of them drank their tea.


End file.
